


She's Beautiful

by mintsicles



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintsicles/pseuds/mintsicles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is a word that can send pinpricks of fear down most people’s spines, but for you’ve seen war itself, known what it’s like to live every day knowing you might not see the next, learned how to evade the grasping tendrils of death itself, but nothing in the world scares you quite as much as the sound of heels on the old wooden hallway boards and the faintest scent of gentle chemicals that always comes with her arrival. Nothing in the world scares you quite as much as she does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

It’s not a battlefield, but it feels more like one than you’d like to imagine. The house, the ancient wooden structure you used to call home, is the enemy’s territory, and here you’re still a soldier, taking light footsteps on the balls of your feet so as not to make a sound. You follow the trail you used to use to sneak downstairs at night, with your sister, and have little adventures in the mid of night because you were young and the world was less grayish tones and things to block away and more sights and sounds to experience and feel. You pass your parents bedroom, where the white-painted wooden door is closed tightly, and you can hear the constant rhythm of two breathing patterns through the thin walls, just the way they were when you made this walk years ago - though you were heading down the stairs then, rather than up. Then you were escaping your prison, and now you’re coming back.

  
You continue past the first door and it’s only then that you notice the second is swung open just a crack on old bronze hinges tinted dark red with rust, just far enough for the faintest golden illumination to seep into the shadowed hallway. You stop in your tracks and your black booted feet sink into the fading gray carpet underfoot like it’s mud, as if gravity has suddenly discovered the weight in your heavy heart, but you force yourself to take a step, and another. You hold your breath as you pass her door.

  
Once you’re out of the danger zone you notice a disturbance to the silence fallen over the building. It’s barely audible, but years of training and experience have taught your ears to pick up on any and all noises around you, because when you’re on the battlefield it could be the enemy’s footsteps or danger approaching on the horizon. So you take a step towards the wall and lean your ear against the thin plaster to hear the source of the noise better. It’s an unfamiliar sound, though, something low and gentle, something that stirs something in your stomach that you’ve nearly forgotten was there at all. Someone’s humming, and it’s not the first time you’ve heard this song.

  
You continue on to the third door, fingertips trailing the strap across your chest that secures the familiar weight of gun to your back. You didn’t bring anything home with you, you may have had three years but the only souvenirs you brought back were a cold composure and the mark of a wolf on the back of your hand in ebony ink. Tentatively, you grasp the porcelain knob of the third door as if it’s trapped, but it’s not, this is only a battleground inside your head and, even if it is, the other side isn’t even aware that the war has begun. Nothing stirs anywhere in the house when your fingers wrap around it or when you silently push the door open and step in.

  
Your room is exactly as you had left it - bare and dismal. Your school bag sits on your desk by your laptop, abandoned, still full of unturned-in class work and essay assignments from years in the past. Your bed is made with nothing but a thin cotton sheet in a dreary gray, the blinds are pulled shut and a single light sits in the corner, collecting a halo of dust around the top edge of the lampshade.

  
Only when the door is shut securely behind you you let yourself relax, slinging your gun off your shoulder and beginning to unlace your boots, stretching tiredly as you set them down on a rug near the doorway. A brief examination of your closet suggests that it has remained untouched as the rest of your possessions - school uniforms, a few extra blouses and one of Junko’s skirts that you’d prefer not to reminisce on the origins of. You lift the hanger of a cream-colored blouse up to your figure, only mildly surprised to find that it still falls to the right length.

  
You turn the lamp on as you head for the window and it flicks awake, illuminating slowly as if it’s taking in a deep breath as it comes back to life. Lifting the blinds completely in what must be the first time in your life, a cascade of settled dust is sent off into the thick air, settling on your desk and your shoulders and the wooden boards underfoot. You’re greeted with the vision of an untouched city skyline barely peeking up over the horizon and a gray sky overhead, a thick layer of industrial pollution masking any stars that might normally be present. For the moment you’re contented with the solitude, though you know tomorrow morning will be difficult you find mild comfort in the knowledge that you’ve already gone through what most people would consider a great deal worse than a conversation with your sister. It’s such a pity you know it’s not true.

  
You’re startled away from your serenity when you hear a sound you instinctively place as gunfire before you realize it’s only someone rapping softly on your door, an effort that proves pointless as the door swings open of its own accord before you can conjure an adequate reply.

  
She’s taller than she was when you left, and her skirts are shorter, and maybe it’s just her expensive concealer combined with the dim lighting but you can’t see any of the freckles that dotted her cheeks when she was younger, the ones still present on yours. Her hair has grown out considerably and she’s dyed it blonde with pink tints, but you already knew that from magazines and advertisements and small talk between other soldiers. Her career really took off while you were gone, hadn’t it?

  
On one of your missions a few of your older comrades had gotten hold of a magazine with your sister printed on the cover, in a big red bow and a v-neck shirt and one of those mini skirts she’s always been so fond of wearing. The emotion that you found as you watched them fawn over her was something akin to the feeling you always found when she brought home one of her boyfriends, you think, or at least that’s how you justify stealing their magazine to protect your sister from their less-than-pure desires. Not that they knew she was your sister, of course.

  
The thing about life back with Fenrir was people knew who you were. Not your name, perhaps, there are secrets that should be kept in the game of war, but they knew who you were nonetheless. Primarily, the number of teenage runaways who were accepted into Fenrir was between zero and one, and secondly, physical combat was and is something you have always excelled at. You were part of an elite group, you were one of the very best there was. You were a prodigy. At home, though… you’re nothing more than Junko’s shadow, and you know that’s all you’ll ever be. You don’t mind, though, you never have. She’s worth it.

  
“Mukuro.”

  
Your name sounds prettier on her lips than it ever does on anyone else’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first fic on ao3, hope it's not too awful! also, fair warning: i wrote this after finishing the first game and i have never read Dangan Ronpa IF (or sdr2, for that matter), so apologies if this is vastly un-canon/mukuro is out of character, as this was written entirely by my headcanons. uwu
> 
> second person is ... weird


	2. II

When you awaken the next morning to a pale gray sky you find a folder on the ground in front of the door. Pushed under it, likely, so you stand to pick it up and lean against the edge of your desk as you flip through it’s contents. Registration papers… Hope’s Peak Academy. A note that reeks of artificial fruit-scented chemicals, signed with a bright red lipstick smudge. ‘sis -’, it reads, ‘be a doll and fill these out, would you? xoxo’. It makes you just a little bit nauseous.

Pulling the note out of the way and discarding it on your desk you continue to sift through the files within. A letter addressed to yourself, commemorating your acceptance to Hope’s Peak Academy on the grounds of being a ‘Super High School Level Soldier’, dated three years ago. And another, a reply (addressed to your sister) to an appeal to get you back into the school, dated a little less than a month ago. This too makes you nauseous, though for entirely different reasons.

You dig in your old school bag for a pen and go few a through until you find one that still works, settling back in your desk chair as you write your name on the first line of one of the forms in the neatest characters you can manage.

***

There’s a boy sitting on the edge of her bed when you enter her room, next to her, close enough to her body to make you hesitant to linger, and the expression drawn across his pale features and gray-blue eyes drive your suspicions further, so you gesture the folder up into her line of vision as you rest it among the varying assortment of make ups and ribbons and papers that litter her desk and move to take your leave. She’s not contented with that, though, it seems, so you stop when she stands and you stay still with your eyes obediently trained to the floor as you hear the footsteps her heels make on the old wooden floorboards draw closer to you.

Her manicured fingertips graze the edge of your blouse as she stands in front of you, a gesture that would appear to be nothing more than sisterly compassion to outside eyes but you know she means it as so much more. You shiver. The edges of her dark pink lips curl up in a wide smirk as you meet her gaze, if only for a moment. “Mukuro, this is Leon. He’ll be in our class next year.”

You lean just slightly to catch a glance of the boy in question she left sitting all alone on her mattress, giving him a brief scan up and down while trying to ignore the way it feels like something’s constricting around your chest and making it hard for your lungs to find air. White jeans and a t-shirt, cut to give a generous view of his toned chest underneath, pale skin and clothing accented only with fiery red hair and a splattered print on his shirt to match. He gives you a bright grin. You respond with a half-hearted wave.

“Mukuro, huh? Cool name.” You nod silently in reply because, honestly, you don’t feel much like dignifying his presence with words, and sister dearest seems to have picked up on this fact because suddenly she’s offering up a playful laugh and resting her hand on her waist, pushing her shirt tight to her delicate frame.

“Come on, sis, Leon’s only here so he can skip baseball practice.” You’re not sure how true your sister’s words ring but you give her an affirmative nod regardless so at the very least she knows you heard her. It suddenly registers with you who this boy is, however - super high school level baseball player. You read about him online when you were checking the school’s website, per Junko’s advice. “But, hey, Leon and I and a couple of our friends are gonna go out later tonight, wanna tag along?”

The boy resting on the edge of your sister’s bed seems to find this a great idea, you think, because he’s nodding enthusiastically and sending another contented smile in your direction. You shake your head slowly, gaze drifting down towards the dark chestnut floorboards once more as you shift your weight and place one boot tip firmly behind your other heel. “I’ll have to decline, I have things to review before school resumes…”

Junko shakes her head softly, rose tinted ponytails fluttering out across her shoulders as she lifts her hands towards your shoulders. She delivers a light tug to the ends of the vibrant scarlet ribbon around your neck to undo it and swiftly reties it in a neat little bow, perfect if not just a little bit too snug around your neck, and you can tell by the expression that’s drawn itself on those icy blue eyes that she’s fully aware of this fact. You can feel her warm breath ricochet to your neck when she speaks. “Come on, Mukuro, it’ll be fun.” She flicks ebony mascara-tipped eyelashes innocently as she steps back towards her guest, moving to sit down, pulling her vivid red skirt down just a bit as she does so, the same color of her boot laces, of his shirt, of your bow. The color Junko uses to mark her possessions … a color you are all too familiar with.

You nod silently and try your best to conjure up some sort of a smirk for your darling sister and her dimwitted plaything. “I suppose it could be fun.”

She claps her hands in delight and begins to tirelessly relay times and locations and names you’ve never heard before at all. Though her words fall to deaf ears you doubt it will be a problem later, so you nod politely and take your leave once she’s fallen silent, idle fingers gripping softly at the bow around your neck in a vain attempt to loosen the collar Junko’s put on her favorite little puppy.

You may have been trained a wolf, but you will always be her puppy.


	3. III

The words she whispers in your ear are unrepeatable. Your fingers grasp the worn khaki cotton of your skirt until your knuckles turn white, as if it could help you cling reality, though her words are solidifying in your mind to give you thoughts of much, much more. And every time she says that word, that word, the one she always loved to use and she still does, oh, how she still does, her heart beats a little faster up against your side, and if she could feel your heartbeat half as clearly as you can hers she would know that her words are having exactly the impact she wants them to. You shudder.

“It’ll be perfect, Mukuro. They’ll all feel the beautiful despair that they forced me into from the moment I was born. Forced us into, Mukuro. We’re going to share it with them, share it all, let it consume those bastards ‘till there’s nothing left but a shattered shell of what used to be sanity.” When she takes a breath you can feel her lips graze your ear, her breath slur towards your cheek, her ribcage pushing in to your side as she speaks. “You’ll help me, won’t you?"

Your chest feels tight, your shoulders shake, your throat feels dry and you’re not sure if you can bring yourself to speak but you know you have to, she’ll make you, even though you know all too well that there is only one answer to her question and she just wants to hear it off your lips more than anything else. She wants to feel like you want to help her. And you do, you do, you do. Of course you do, there was never any question about it. She knows this. 

“Of course.” Dark pink lips curl up in a smirk at your words, and she nods, as if she thought there was any chance you could ever say no to her.


	4. IV

"Uh, Ikusaba-san?"

Your attention is called by an uneasy voice behind you, and when you turn around you find it belonging to a boy just a bit smaller than you, but with airy locks of flyaway brown hair to compensate for lost height. Hazel eyes glimmer with relief as you give him a passive nod to continue, dismissing his apparent concern of finding the wrong person.

"This is for you." You suddenly note the white plastic binder in his left hand when he gestures it for you to take. You do so, flicking briefly through its contents before your eyes lock on a certain diagram that you take as a cue to shut it quickly and review it later in private. When you force your gaze back upwards to the brunet who seems to feel it necessary to remain in front if you, nervously entangling the fingers of one hand in the elastic cord hanging from his hoodie.

“Running errands for Junko?” Your question is presented idly since you know it should be none of your concerns, but you admit to being mildly curious about what this strange boy could have possibly done for her to have trusted him with these files, (especially since you only wish you aren’t able to discern all too easily he is certainly not her type), and besides that point it seems like you should be saying something since he doesn’t seem intent on leaving you alone just yet. He shrugs in reply, smiling in slight embarrassment as he pulls his hand back to his side.

“Enoshima-san and I just have last hour together, and I mean, it seems rude to say no.” He shrugs once more, dismissing the subject, but he doesn’t allow the space between you to fall silent this time, instead opting to continue on with what you assume must have been why he didn’t leave in the first place. “By the way, have you seen Fujisaki-san? Oowada-kun asked me to give her something.” You glance at him questioningly, though you don’t mind his inquire.

“Running errands for everyone, then?” He shrugs off your statement so you reply to his. “I have something for her as well, Junko told me she’d be in the computer lab on the second floor.” You take a breath and watch the strange boy with the hazel eyes in front of you, waiting for him to talk. He doesn’t. You’re not entirely sure how conversations work, anyway, and by the way this is going you’d guess he’s either flustered by your presence or he isn’t entirely sure either. Perhaps both. “Do you know where that is?”

“Oh! Uh, yeah, I do.” Seemingly startled by your question, he shuffles his weight between his feet for a moment. You have absolutely no idea what he’s finding so distracting, but it’s getting to the edge of your nerves. He adds on to his statement before you get a chance to take your leave. “Do you want to come with me? To find her, that is.”

You nod despite yourself, turning towards the hallway and allowing the young man with the forest green sweatshirt to take place at your side before walking. He beams up at you brightly, turning towards you as you head down the hall.

“You can call me Makoto.”

***

Fujisaki, as it turns out, is a tiny little thing, with big, glassy eyes like a doll and a waist that could probably fit in between your hands and let your fingers touch if you tried. Waves of tawny hair flick out behind her neck and she sits with her legs folded under her chocolate colored skirt in her chair, contentedly tapping away at a keyboard in a steady rhythm you’re almost hesitant to break. The boy accompanying you has no such concerns, however, as he hastily pulls a paper note from his pocket and places it just to the right of her keyboard, which predictably draws her attention away from her fingers and halts the constant tapping noise.

“Oowada-kun wanted me to give you this,” he quickly explains, and she nods attentively as pale pink lips form a soft smile. She’s pretty, you think. To you, Junko’s pretty like some people think guns are pretty, or maybe black widows. Manipulative, deceptive, dangerous, and there’s something about that element of danger that makes her all the more alluring. This girl, though, reminds you more of a tiny kitten than a spider, something radiating innocence in a way that’s all too charming. It makes you just a little bit uneasy to think about it.

After your dark haired acquaintance has stepped back and you notice a pair of wide golden eyes gazing up at you curiously, so you step forward, nodding to the miniature girl in greeting and continuing right to the point. “Junko and I were wondering if you’d be willing to do us a favor.”

“Oh?” She blinks a few times, dark eyelashes fluttering against pale skin, and you pull out a folder from the bag slung across your shoulder, resting at your hip, and set it down in front of her. You allow her to flick it open to the first page inside, a diagram of a grinning little bear. Eyebrows are raised, but she remains taciturn, awaiting further explanation.  
“We were wondering if you could construct a program for a remote controlled bear. You know, like a school mascot.” You conclude your proposal with a forced smile, which is quickly met with a genuine one from the tawny haired young woman below you.

“Oh, that’s cool!” She flips through the rest of the diagrams contentedly, and you’re relieved that your poor negotiation skills were enough to win her over. Of course, you doubt she’d be so eager to take up this project if she knew what your sister’s actual intentions for the finished project. But as long as everything goes to plan - and you know it will - she won’t ever have to find out.

“It’s a tentative design,” you explain, “so if there are any complications there or if you don’t like it -”

“Oh, no,” she croons, gaze traveling back up from the papers below her to meet your own. “I think it’s cute.” She gives you the brightest smile and it makes you more than a little sick. You swallow to quell any feelings of nausea and force yourself to pay attention as the continues right on. “I’ve made a script kind of like this before, so it shouldn’t be that difficult to modify for this to work. When do you need this done by?”

You shrug, though you know sister dearest won’t be contented to delay this any longer than absolutely necessary. “As soon as you can get it back to us.”

***

You allow the boy with fluffy locks of light brown hair to accompany you for the walk from the second floor computer lab to the front doors of the school, and though, much like the previous walk you had taken at his side, it is made in silence, he seems contented enough to simply be standing next to you. You’re thankful for that, at least. You’ve never been one for small talk.

When you reach the large archway entrance to the school you expect to part ways, exchange awkward and hesitant goodbyes, perhaps, but instead you find him looking up at you and you find yourself passively confused and mildly annoyed at his unwillingness to leave your side. He seems like he has something he want to say to you this time, though, so you remain silent and allow him to do so. He bites the edge of his lip before speaking.

“Ikusaba-san?” As if he didn’t already have your attention. You suppose it’s more out of nervousness than anything else, so you allow him to continue. “You’re… very pretty.”

At first you’re not entirely sure if you heard him correctly - this is certainly a first - but he flashes you a bright grin and shrugs dismissively. “Do you want to get together sometime? I mean, it doesn’t have to be a date or anything, you just seem pretty cool.” You think that was a compliment. You also think that was the first time you’ve received a compliment that wasn’t about your accuracy with a gun or number of confirmed kills. One might assume that the identical twin sister of a world famous supermodel would have received more commentary on her looks then you actually get, but then again, most people don’t realize that your sister’s glamorous appearance is maintained more through clever application of cosmetics and perfumes and hair dye than anything else, and the only aid she received from biology was the figure you two share.

“… Sure.” You nod as if assuring yourself of your own statement. “I think I would like that.”

***

“…Hmm? What’s this?”

Junko plucks a miniature torn paper slip from your desktop, snickering as she reads the ten numbers scrawled across in messy pencil markings. “Mukuro, whose number is this?”  
She’s smirking at you from the other side of your room as you look up from the papers sprawled in your lap and on top of the bed beside you, diagrams and paragraphs and plans. Your feel your cheeks flush, but you say nothing of it. “Makoto’s.” She stays silent for a moment, then frowns, tilting her head.

“Naegi-san?” You nod. “I don’t remember him being a part of our plan.”

“He’s just a friend.” You turn back to the files to sift through on your lap, dismissing the conversation, as if that would ever be enough of an explanation to satisfy your sister. You know better than that.

“Mukuro, that doesn’t sound very despair-inducing.” Her statement is concluded with a single forced laugh, and you can see those red-laced boots moving towards you out of the corner of your eye. She rests a hand on your knee when she reaches you, gingerly, leaning forward to flutter dark lashes in your direction. You don’t dare to meet her gaze, this is a game you’ve played all too many times. You only wish you knew how to win.

“What are your intentions with Naegi-kun, Mukuro? You aren’t plotting against your sweetest little sister, are you?” Her voice goes up an octave with that last part, the way she speaks when she’s trying to sound innocent, when she pushes out her lower lip and flutters her eyes a few more times. You’re all too use to this game, you don’t look up. Just don’t look up.

Your sister growls when you don’t reply, dropping the act as she tilts her head ever so slightly to the right. “Answer me when I talk, Mukuro.” You give nothing but a shaky breath, so her hand slides up from your knee to rest on your upper thigh, and settles her other hand under your chin to softly nudge your head up and force you to meet her gaze, and your eyes remain open as she flicks her closed and pushes her lips firmly against yours.

When she pulls away she smirks, and you look her in the eye with the same expression you always meet her with. “That was despairing, Mukuro,” she whispers, and her breath is hot against your neck. “I almost thought you were going to leave me. And look at what a good little sister I am, I can share that despair with you too.” She lifts her hand from where she had been pinning you to the bed by your thigh and uses it to tear the paper single-handedly, brushing the scattered halves from your lap and to the floor. You don’t let your gaze fall from hers to watch. “You aren’t going to leave me, are you?”

You shake your head and she stands back upright, settling her hands at her hips. “Good girl.”


	5. V

Lipstick feels oily on your lips, your skin feels wet with concealer and false eyelashes clutter your vision but Junko says you clean up nicely. 

The room you wait in is cold, but you don’t pay much attention to the fact, dismissing it as yourself adjusting to the thin clothing she’s put you in - it’s hers, a bright scarlet skirt that barely reaches your thighs and a thin black layer over your blouse. She buttoned it for you, smiling softly, stepping back as she finished to give you one last look up and down. She had hesitated to say anything at first, and you couldn't help but let that fact worried you. “Is it not going to work?”, you had asked. 

“No, no, it’s just...” She had offered a short laugh, pushing blonde bangs out of her eyes and nodding to you. “...you’re kind of pretty.” 

You weren’t sure why she said that at the time but you think you get it now, though some part of you (an uncomfortably large part of you) wants to believe that you're wrong, that she really thinks you could ever be half as beautiful as she is and it wasn't just a ploy to remind her why you’re going through with this. In afterthought, she was really only complimenting herself, after all, though you suppose you were too dazes by the concept of your sister's praise to remember this at the time. You don’t mind, though, of course you don’t. You've always known she’s beautiful. 

You feel uneasy as you survey the room once more, going over everything she told you in your head - who's going to be here and when, what they’ll remember, what you should tell them, how to act her part. How this is going to work. And it’s going to work, you know it is, when your sister says something is going to work it is going to, no questions. There is no uncertainty, there is no room for anything to go any way other than exactly how she planned it to, as long as you carry out her orders exactly as she told you to. The only variable she’s allowing here is you, and she’s confident you’ll do exactly what she wants you to. And you know she’s right. 

You can’t help but notice, however, the way your heart is hammering in your rib cage, the way your chest feels heavy, the way your stomach is uneasy. You don’t want to think about why. 

You made the right decision, didn’t you? You made the decision to do what your sister told you to, to follow her orders, to make her happy. That's all you want, really. To make your sister happy. Which makes you wonder why, exactly, your heart is hammering in your rib cage, and your chest feels heavy, and your stomach is uneasy, if you’re so confident in your decision. 

Your gaze falls to the video camera perched on the wall in the far corner of the classroom, the one you had helped your sister mount only a few weeks ago. She’s watching you from her tiny room up on the top floor, you know she is. You idly wonder if the microphone strung up below it is strong enough to pick up to pick up on your erratic breathing. You doubt that it is. 

Mentally going over her plan leads to mentally going over the conclusion and for a moment you allow yourself to imagine it, imagine her smiling, imagine blood stains painting the walls, imagine the looks of horror your classmates will deliver, imagine her smiling.

“I...” When you speak you gaze out to the camera, as if looking your sister in the eye, but the second you allow your thoughts to draw the comparison you force yourself to look away. ‘....don’t want to do this anymore’ is how you want to complete the sentence, but you don’t finish it that way. You say the only thing you can possibly think of to tell your sister, words that have always been so apparent you almost wonder why they haven’t come off your lips before. You suppose there was never any need for them to. “...love you.” 

You take a deep breath and draw your lips into a smile as you get ready for showtime. 

You love your sister, you really do. Of course you do. 

You always have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! hope that wasn't too awful for my first try. 
> 
> ((on a side note, you can read my actual notes for each individual chapter at my writing blog, which i dont want to post the url for here, but message me either here or over at mintsicles.tumblr.com if you want the url. thanks!))


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